Intercisus
by CumberbatchedInTheTardis
Summary: "Sherlock—" he couldn't move, couldn't even lift a finger. He was broken beyond repair and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. It's just like any other case; They usually end up chasing the criminal, catching the criminal, and then going home. Why is tonight any different?


**_Hey guys! This is my first BBC Sherlock fic that came about after someone on Tumblr made a post that contained the words "Sherlock falling to his knees beside john's broken, twisted body after arriving too late to stop the killer" and my terrible brain wouldn't stop thinking about it, SO I had to put it in words. Sorry for any tears I may or may not cause. I take any and all hatred fueled reviews with pride. Also, the nice reviews, they fill a special file on my computer. I would say enjoy, but deathfics aren't really something you can enjoy. So I will say, I hope I don't make you hate me too much. _**

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_Faster, he's just around this corner. _Sherlock's feet pounded relentlessly against the uneven ground, rocks and large bits of broken cement jabbing him through the soles of his shoes.

"Come on, John! We're going to lose him!"

_I'm getting too old for this. _But John just pushed his legs faster, nearly catching Sherlock and passing him. Sherlock stopped abruptly, skidding around the corner, causing John to blow right past him and collide with the railing separating the upper floor and the main area of the warehouse they were currently in. The metal gave way with a resounding crack and before John could do anything, he plummeted over the side and out of Sherlock's sight.

"John!" Sherlock bounded over to the broken railing and peered into the darkness, his heart racing with the possibilities. "John, are you all right?" He called down below. "John? Answer me, damn it!"

A few unbearable seconds ticked by before Sherlock heard a cough and a weak, "Yeah," but the suspect was getting away and Sherlock knew John would find his way out and back to him. He always did.

"I'll be back, don't do anything stupid!" Sherlock took off at a full sprint before John could respond. But that didn't stop the response John threw at him from the boxes he'd landed on, "Don't _you _do anything stupid, Sherlock, he might have a gun or a knife! Be careful!"

John wriggled around, trying to get off the pile of boxes and make his way out of the warehouse, but a clatter to the left made him stop. As he continued to lay completely still, he could hear a shuffle of booted feet and the clicking of a gun. Specifically, the safety of the gun being disengaged. His heart began to race. Where the hell was Sherlock if the suspect was down here?

As quietly as he could, John felt around for his Browning, cursing under his breath when he came back with nothing but lint and a receipt in his hand. _It must have fallen out of my pocket when I fell. Shit._

"Come now, Dr. Watson. I know you can hear me. Come out from wherever you are and we'll just have a little chat, shall we?" John knew he shouldn't move, shouldn't do anything until Sherlock showed up, but he knew from the crime scenes and the bodies riddled all over London that this guy knew how to use a gun and didn't have any qualms about it, either.

Letting himself slide down the boxes, his feet finally touched solid ground and he stepped forward, groaning and clenching his teeth as the pain from the fall finally hit him like a sack of bricks.

"Ah, there you are! Thought you were hiding somewhere in the boxes like the coward you are." John hated him already, wishing he had his gun so he could just send a bullet through this man's brain and end this mindless rampage.

"Then why did you run from us, if I'm the coward here?" John bit out.

"Had to find a way to get Mr. Holmes away from the police," he paused, turning fully towards John with a wicked grin on his face. "And you away from Mr. Holmes. Boxes definitely don't break the fall all that much, as you just found out. Although, you're lucky. You actually landed on them. I, on the other hand, missed them completely. Good thing it wasn't that high, really. Busted up ankle, I can deal with. Broken back, though," the man winced and clicked his tongue.

"That would have been very unfortunate, indeed." John shuffled forward a bit, putting his body in line with the exit that way, if he needed to run, he could just plow right through the man and try to make it to the door before he got a shot off.

"So Dr. Watson, where did Mr. Holmes run off to? I heard him say he'd be back. It'd be a shame if he were to miss all the fun we're going to have." The man's right hand gripped the gun even tighter, bringing it to his lips so he could kiss the muzzle and then pointed his straight at John.

_Stay calm, Watson. You've done this before, you can do it again._

"Haven't the faintest." John's left hand was steady as could be. _Keep him talking, Watson, maybe we can make enough time until Sherlock finds us. _

There was a boom that echoed through the building and John felt something cut into his right calf, tearing its way through flesh and bone, heard the ricochet of the bullet now covered in his blood bury itself in the wall behind him, all before the searing pain brought him down.

"It would help you not to tell lies, Dr. Watson. Honestly, what would Mr. Holmes say?" The man limped over to John, bending down next to him to run the warm muzzle of the gun over his cheek.

"Fuck you," John gritted out, trying to control the pain now coursing through his entire body.

"My, my, Dr. Watson, do you use that language around other people? So uncivilized." John shivered as the man ran his hand down the side of his face, all the way down to the entry wound. "I think I know just the thing that will cure you of that."

John tried not to howl and scream as the man plunged two of his fingers into the wound. He saw stars as the two fingers continued to poke and prod at the meat of his leg.

"Now, you can tell where Holmes went or I can blow your other leg to bits, it's your choice. Which will it be?" The fingers left his leg and John sobbed, unable to help the sounds leaving his body because of the excruciating pain. He'd forgotten how much getting shot hurt.

"I—I told you, I don—Ahhhhh!"

"Wrong answer, Dr. Watson!" His hand gripped and squeezed John's calf, causing blood to ooze out of the wound and cover his hands in dark red. After a few seconds, he relented and released John's leg, pushing the muzzle of the gun against John's left calf.

John clenched his teeth together, waiting. He saw the man's grip on the gun loosen a bit as he adjusted his grip and kicked with his good leg. His foot made contact with the man's chest, watching as the gun flew behind him from the force and he scrambled backwards, keeping his eyes on where the gun had landed. John heard the man growl and he quickened his pace, pushing with his good leg and pulling his body forward with his arms.

"Bad move, Watson, very bad move."

"Sherlock! Where the fuck are you? I cou—" His words were cut off as he was pinned to the ground just as he got his hands on the gun. He raised his arm behind his head and fired off two shots, hearing the bullets burrow through the flesh and stop once they reached the wall with a solid thunk.

The man howled and forced his knee further into John's back. John felt the man move and felt a blade bury itself into his side. He couldn't breathe as it twisted and sawed. A hand gripped his left arm and twisted, pulling it back and popping it, dislocating the joint. His mouth opened in a silent cry and what breathe he had in him left is a blood curdling scream.

"Come out, come out wherever you are, Holmes! I know you're here somewhere!" The man screamed as he continued to tear into John's body and twist limbs, breaking bones and ripping tendons. John forgot all about the gun in his hand for a split second, but then remembered and twisted his body around as much as he could, aiming as best he could and fired once. He felt the knife bury itself again in the center of his chest and then everything was silent. All he could heard was his own blood-filled lungs gurgling, trying to fill with air, his heartbeat fluttering wildly.

And then, footfalls thudding against the ground coming straight towards him and Sherlock's coat flapping as the air caught it and caused it to fly out behind him. John could picture it, could picture Sherlock running full on, the coat flaring out with grace and beauty.

"John!"

"Sher—" he choked as blood began to fill his mouth and nose. He coughed and a spray of dark red erupted from his mouth like a volcano.

Sherlock dropped to the ground beside John, violently shoving the body off him, and froze. Protruding from John's chest was a knife. "John, oh God."

"Sherlock—" he couldn't move, couldn't even lift a finger. He was broken beyond repair and there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

"Don't you dare, John! Lestrade's on his way. Don't you dare do something as boring as die right now." His vision began to blur. Was he crying? He reached up and touched his cheek. His fingers came away wet.

"Sherlock, press—" John clenched his teeth and tried again, his eyes beginning to water. "Pressure. I need pressure on the wound. Take your—" _scarf. Scarf, damn it! _But he couldn't finish.

"John, what—" Blood spilled from every wound, soaking the floor in red. He couldn't stop it. John. He couldn't—No, he _will_ stop it. He'll save John. He'll fix him. He has to.

Sherlock laid his hands on John's leg, pushing down and squeezing at the same time, trying to stop John's life from soaking the floor further. "Like this, is this good?"

John's lungs rattled and gurgled with air and blood. He nodded.

"John, stay with me, okay? Lestrade's on his way. You'll be fine, we'll be fine. John, no, keep your eyes open. Keep breathing, stay alive, you can do this. You survived Afghanistan, remember? Please, John. Come on, that's right," John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock, tears blurring his vision, but he knew Sherlock was there. Sherlock was always there.

"Sherlock," he breathed.

"That's good, keep your eyes fixed on me, can you do that for me? Lestrade's almost here, listen. Can you hear the sirens? He's almost here, John, you'll be fine. We'll get you fixed up. I promise, John, you'll live and we'll continue to go on cases and you can continue to write them up in your stupid blog, okay? Just stay awake, John, keep breathing. We'll get this damn knife out of you and you'll live and grow old. Just don't stop breathing, John, don't ever stop." John's eyes continued to bore into Sherlock's. Sherlock could hear the police running now, running into the building. "Here, we're over here!"

"Lestrade's here, John. See? I told you you'd be fine. Just keep your eyes on me, John. Keep breath—" John's eyes were still glued to Sherlock's. His chest didn't rise or fall.

"John? John, no, you can't—Damn it, John, breathe! You can't be, you just can't, please, John, please, don't be. John, John, come on," Sherlock put his lips on John's, blowing air into his lungs. His chest expanded and deflated. Sherlock put two fingers to John's neck, feeling for a pulse. There wasn't one. "No, no no no, John, you can't do this to me. Stop being so boring, John, and _breathe damn it!"_ Hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him away. "No, let me go, he's not! He can't be! Let me go, damn it, let me go! John! No!" More hands gripped him. Voices floated in and out of his ear.

"Sherlock, stop, he's gone. John's gone, you did everything you could do. Sherlock!" His head whips around as something collides with his cheek.

"Lestrade, he's—He can't be, Lestrade, he can't. He just can't. He can't, John, he's not. He was breathing a second ago, he—he, John. John." His legs give out, lungs inflating and deflating rapidly, he feels light-headed.

He looks back at John, looks at his body, at the knife lying next to John now, at John's blood staining the blade. He screams and claws at his hair and screams to the point that Lestrade has to restrain him, has to hold him down so he doesn't hurt himself.

Because all he wants to do is die and kill. All he wants to do is see John laughing and yelling and grumbling about heads in fridges and toes in butter containers and experiments cluttering every part of the flat and he just wants John.

Lestrade still has a hold of his hands and Sherlock gives up, gives in, falls down and just cries and Lestrade doesn't know what to do other than hold the younger man, so he does. He gets on his knees and folds Sherlock into his chest and holds him. And maybe a few tears of his own drop onto Sherlock's head as he hold him but who cares. The world lost a good man today.


End file.
